The girl in the photo on her wall blinked.

Jojo paused from brushing her long, black hair and wheeled from the mirror. When Jojo peered directly at the portrait on the wall behind her, the picture remained immutable. It depicted a forty-something woman, a dozen years earlier, after her first breast cancer diagnosis. She had her head flung back, eyes closed in the sunshine, hair streaming. It was an image of determination and quiet faith.

Now, the mirror image, occupying its space in the reflection, did something remarkable. The eyes slowly opened, and the visage tilted. There was sadness in that face. In both images, Jojo’s skin remained smooth and unblemished, despite the toils of time. But the portrait in the mirror softened its expression, its gray eyes surveying the middle-aged woman standing irresolutely with her back to the mirror.

Jojo wavered in that moment. She sensed an incongruity. An empath by nature, she knew something wasn’t right. She spun back to the mirror to take in the reflection, and her eyes seized on the portrait behind her.

Yet the renewed inspection yielded no revelations, no jarring supernatural epiphanies. The portrait remained in its frozen state. Her profile still adorned the wall of her apartment with its familiar stance of sun-drenched resolution. There was no eye blinking, no curious, sympathetic gaze cast from a cocked position.

Next to this photograph was the much larger picture of a black pug, its eyes alive in a sea of dark fur. As her attention shifted to this reflection, Jojo’s eyes once again moistened. She stared spellbound, tears welling, until a voice inside her demanded restraint. Jojo laid down the hair brush and steered herself on unsteady feet away from the mirror and into the next room.

Such was life for the woman born in rural Maine but raised in Danbury, Conn. Health concerns had forced her to return to central Maine, captive to the exigencies of medical coverage and subsidized housing. Cancer was a dark vein running through her family history. Another scan would either offer a reprieve or shatter her with a new regimen of surgery and recuperation.

The dreaded medical appointment came and went. The news ended up amounting to a wait-and-see verdict. Nothing presented itself as an immediate danger.

After fourteen months, Jojo had to contend with this grim reality. A double mastectomy had rid her of the calcification in her chest that doctors had deemed cancerous. Yet, she could not consider herself cancer free. Her medical team would inspect her periodically. All the while, a harsh assumption would remain: Within at least the next five years, Jojo could not shake free of the fear that cancer would return.

In the ensuing weeks, Jojo contemplated herself in the bedroom mirror. She allowed her eyes to widen and narrow. She tested expressions and profiles. Decades earlier, in her twenties, Jojo had flirted with modeling. Today, she felt a kinship with that young woman, a camaraderie. For most of her life, her Double D breasts had burdened her. It was not just the lustful stares from men, the gazes that hovered below her eyeline. There were more tangible mistreatments and gross abuses that were no longer discussed, dark shadows driven to the back corners of her psyche.

Today, ironically, Jojo still felt probing gazes. She contended with the gaping stares and judgmental glances for a woman whose upper torso no longer blossomed but resembled that of a man. So in a way she had come full circle. Her chest would always be a source of scars, whether physically or psychologically.

In her days of modeling, Jojo had shown off her physical beauty, wearing tight-fitting clothing that celebrated the body that God had given her. Outside of that professional sphere, however, Jojo had dressed with dignity and taste. She had pursued nursing and mental health counseling. Always, her heart had found common cause with underdogs, people battling afflictions and those seeking to fit in.

And from the earliest age, Jojo had rescued dogs. This hobby, which bordered on an obsession, presented a fitting metaphor for her life. The black pug, photographed during a grooming appointment, was one of those treasured companions. Kiya was more than a pet, certainly a greater presence than any mere animal could be. The rainbow bridge of eternal remembrance was heavily populated by the dogs that had entered Jojo’s life. Only a few years ago, Kiya had crossed that bridge.

So when Jojo glanced once more at her reflected photograph, her eyes were doused with tears. Once again, she contemplated the dear, playful pug in the neighboring picture on the wall.

So it was less jarring and more expected when she shifted her gaze and when the reflection of her portrait on the wall blinked. The effect, a skeptic might say, was the result of tears brimming in her eyes. But Jojo, the empath, knew the truth. That image of herself was there with a simple message: You’re still here. You’re still a fighter and a lover of underdogs. And no, it’s not a trick of your eyes, what you’re seeing.

Jojo’s image was blinking and cocking its head to one side because it had a message for her older self: God did not create you for a spirit of fear or defeat. Your fate is not written in a medical chart. So throw back your head, let your long, black hair flow, and close your eyes to the world. Embrace the warm sun on your face. Your life is what you make of it today.

And don’t forget to hug yourself. Over the rainbow bridge, your beautiful furry companions are barking and running, almost as though they feel your grief. They want you to embrace each day. Don’t waste it. They love you and want you to be happy.

Jojo smiled and wiped away the tears. She picked up her brush and resumed straightening her hair. Then, she glided to a nearby window and basked in the sunlight, head thrown back, eyes closed.